I poured him another double and gently draped the blanket over his shoulders.
He didn’t protest. Just sat there, soaked in silence and whiskey.
I settled beside him—close, but not touching. And I let the quiet stretch between us, thick and slow. I knew how it would pull him in, the way silence always does when you're desperate for answers.
And then — I struck.
“She was always going to leave, Dorian.”
My voice was soft. Sympathetic. A trap lined with velvet.
He stiffened, his jaw twitching — but he didn’t look at me.
I leaned in just slightly.
“You really thought you were more than a study abroad fling?”
He flinched.
Perfect.
The seed of doubt cracked open, right on time.
“It was more than that,” he said, low and hoarse, like the words hurt to say.
His fingers curled into fists on his knees.
“We made plans. We talked about the future. I know what we had.”
A pause. Then quieter, like speaking to a version of himself still trying to believe it.
“She loved me.”
I almost smiled. Almost.
“She went back to her family, Dorian. Her real life. You think you could’ve replaced that?”
He didn’t answer.
Not out loud.
But I saw the fight flicker in his eyes—and then dim, just slightly.
He looked down at his glass, then past it. Somewhere far. Somewhere she was.
I shifted, my voice calm, measured—like a kindness.
“I had my father’s network look into her.”
Another sip of poison.
“They found her. Sent me photos.”
A beat. Then I added, almost tenderly: “But I’m not sure you’re ready to see them.”
His head snapped toward me.
“Is she okay?” he asked, the words rough, desperate. “Show me. Now.”
